Miracle on Baker Street
by Nikolai-Tesla
Summary: 'Have you never celebrated Christmas before? You must've, what with Mycroft and "Mummy".' Sherlock grimaced slightly. 'Oh, yes,' he said bitterly. 'There have been loads of awkward Christmases. But I've never had a proper one, a really proper one...'


'Here, Sherlock, put this on.' John Watson had met his flatmate at the threshold of the flat and was now grinning at him in excited anticipation, brandishing a long, black strip of fabric.

'I refuse to wear that, John. It's so... demeaning. The last person who tried to blindfold me was promptly shot. And he was a Russian assassin.'

John blinked in confusion and shook his head slightly. 'What are you-? Never mind. Just close your eyes, then. Come _on_, Sherlock, just do it!'

Sherlock looked nonplussed but finally acquiesced, shutting his eyes.

'The word "surprise" just isn't in your vocabulary, is it?'

'I am assuming, John, that that was a misguided attempt at humour rather than a slander of my frankly astonishing mental lexicon.'

'I just don't understand how you could go through life without surprises. It takes the fun out of things. Do you _have_ to know everything all of the time?'

Sherlock's eyes shot open and he looked taken aback, as if unsure of how to process the question. 'What? Yes, of course I do. Don't be an idiot.'

John sighed. 'Justonce, Sherlock, _once_, could you do what I say?'

Sherlock at least had the good grace to attempt to look abashed, shutting his eyes tightly, and John was forced to hide a smile at his flatmate's obvious discomfort.

'Excellent! Keep your eyes shut. I'll lead you. I won't let anything happen to you.'

It was a testament to just how much Sherlock trusted John that he let the man take him by the shoulders and lead him, as if blind, into the flat. John, true to his word, managed to very successfully manoeuvre the somewhat intransigent detective through the cluttered interior of the flat with only very minimal damage.

He stopped when they had reached the edge of the kitchen and turned Sherlock 120 degrees so that he was facing the window. 'Okay, Sherlock. You can look now.'

The other man's eyes snapped open as if he couldn't bear the self-imposed blindness for even a second longer and he gave a slight sigh of relief. He worked with his eyes; how could he observe if he could not see?

His gaze tracked across the visible area of the room so quickly that it made John dizzy to look at him. To John it seemed as if the detective could see into every nook and cranny in the room, inside tiny cracks and even into the very walls themselves. Finally, Sherlock's eyes reached the corner of the room and immediately stopped their frenzied movement. They grew wide, almost childlike in their appearance, and John waited eagerly for Sherlock to speak.

'Oh, John,' he breathed, voice trailing off hoarsely at the end. 'It's… gorgeous.'

John grinned. He could not have hoped for a better reaction; he had never heard Sherlock use any aesthetic qualifiers, _ever_, apart from calling crime scenes "beautiful", and the like. John had expected indifference or even annoyance from the other man, but certainly not delight and awe.

He had to admit though, it _did_ look amazing.

'It' was a large, bushy green tree, standing proudly in the corner of the flat. At just under 2.5 metres, its tip barely brushed the ceiling. John had arranged a red and gold blanket underneath the tree and had even hung a few baubles and lights.

Sherlock's eyes lit up as he looked at the tree and he rushed over to snatch a pen off of the table. He began scribbling a list on a scrap of paper he found, after much rummaging, between the cushions of the sofa. He handed it to John excitedly. John took the proffered paper slowly and eyed it warily.

'I need you to pick up a few things,' said Sherlock as John scanned the list.

'But why? Sherlock, this looks like a…'

'Yes. Obviously. Don't lose that paper. It is imperative you remember everything I asked for.'

'Okay, okay. I _got_ it, Sherlock. I may not be you, but I like to think I have a fairly good memory.'

'Yes, and you're so good at following directions,' Sherlock said drolly, grabbing John's coat from the closet and all but thrusting it at him, all the while ushering him toward the door.

John looked at him quizzically. 'Why are you being so pushy? I just brought a tree into our flat, for heaven's sake! I'm sure you don't need all these things right now.'

'Because, John,' Sherlock said as if it should be perfectly obvious. 'The shops close soon. No time to explain. But I do need these things tonight.'

'Yes, sir,' John said, saluting sarcastically. 'Whatever you say, sir.'

Sherlock merely narrowed his eyes and let the door shut in his flatmate's face.

John returned from the shops about two hours later, laden with bags full of various odds and ends. He struggled up the stairs and, by the time he reached the door to 221 B, he was breathing rather heavily. He was forced to juggle all of the parcels in order to properly grasp the knob, and he opened the door a little more forcefully than he would have done under normal circumstances.

'You could have helped, you know,' he started to berate Sherlock, but the words died on his lips when he caught sight of his flatmate.

Sherlock was nestled in an armchair by the tree, completely surrounded by crates full of Christmas decorations. Even more surprising was the fact that he was perched cross-legged, stringing pieces of popcorn and little holly berries together haphazardly and humming "Good King Wenceslas" under his breath.

'Sherlock. What…' John pursed his lips and looked around in confusion. 'What did you do?'

It was not only Sherlock who looked considerably more festive; it was the entire flat. There were candles on all of the tables and a 'Happy Christmas' sign on the wall, and garlands had been flung about the tree with apparent reckless abandon. And-

'Err, Sherlock… would you care to explain why my cat is wearing a Christmas jumper?'

'Come now, John, it looks fine on him. Harriet has one, too. They were gifts from Mrs Hudson.'

'And where did you get all of these decorations?'

'Also from Mrs Hudson. She had a few spare things.'

'A few? It looks like the North Pole in here.'

'Doesn't it just?' Sherlock said, smiling contentedly. He put the last piece of popcorn on the string and tied a knot with a flourish. 'Put this on the tree, won't you?' he asked as he handed it to John. 'I have to get something from my room.'

He disappeared momentarily and reappeared with a large, striped, bow-covered box in his hand.

'John,' he said rather awkwardly, eyes tracing a pattern on the floor. 'I'm not very good at this. I'm not entirely sure how it's supposed to be done. So, at any rate… here.' He thrust the box into John's hand and stepped back quickly.

'The Great Sherlock Holmes admitting there's something he's not good at! And it's not even Christmas yet!' He put a hand over his heart and pretended to swoon in rapture. 'Speaking of which, it _isn't_ Christmas yet. What's this all about?' He held up the package gently.

'Oh, I just thought we could start Christmas a bit early. Since the flat is all decorated now.'

John frowned and shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. 'Oh. Sherlock. I'm sorry. I didn't realize we'd be exchanging gifts. It's just that, you really don't seem the type.'

Sherlock looked momentarily crestfallen but quickly hid his disappointment. 'Right. Of course. I see. I suppose that was a perfectly reasonable assumption. It's not important anyway.' He was staring at the tree with a kind of intense longing John had never seen before.

'Sherlock,' John said hesitantly as he looked at the less-than-careful decoration of the tree. 'Have you never celebrated Christmas before? You must've, what with Mycroft and "Mummy"!'

The other man grimaced slightly. 'Oh, yes,' he said bitterly. 'There have been _loads_ of awkward Christmases. But I've never had a proper one, a _really_ proper one.' He curled his fingers in a forceful gesture. 'Our mother was too rich and too stubborn to do any decorating herself. And she said it was beneath us. We would come home from somewhere or other and the entire house would already be decorated by "the help".'

'So, you've never gotten to decorate a Christmas tree before? That's mad!'

Suddenly it all became clear to John; Sherlock's enthusiasm made complete sense. 'So that's why you've turned the flat into a Winter Wonderland! And why you sent me out to get ingredients for Christmas puddings! You weren't honestly planning on making puddings, were you?'

'Oh, Mrs Hudson would have taken pity on me eventually,' he said unconcernedly, fluttering a hand while John chuckled. Suddenly he grew serious and uncharacteristically frank. 'But in all honesty, John, I appreciate the chance to finally have a proper Christmas, with or without presents.'

John laughed and Sherlock looked at him quizzically. 'Oh, you silly sod!' he burst out. 'Of course I got you a gift. Did you really think I wouldn't?'

When Sherlock heard this, despite his previous assertion that no gifts were necessary, his eyes lit up with a childlike glow. John walked over to the refrigerator, opened the crisper drawer and pulled out a small box. He tossed to box to Sherlock, who- as usual- caught it deftly.

'What was it doing in the crisper?'

John shrugged, grinning. 'It was the one place I knew you wouldn't look.'

Once that matter was cleared up, Sherlock sat starting at the present for an inordinate amount of time. 'Come on, Sherlock, you're not supposed to wait until you develop x-ray vision. Open it!' John encouraged.

Sherlock ignored him and continued looking at the gift. Finally, when even the epically-patient John was feeling antsy, Sherlock grabbed the wrapping paper and eagerly tore it off of the gift, flinging it aside. He pried the lid off the box and pulled out another box, this one smaller and made of leather. Flipping open the lid and glancing inside, he smiled. Inside the box were about three hundred small white business cards.

'"Sherlock Holmes",' he read happily. '"Consulting Detective. 221 B Baker Street." Clever, John. Really clever!'

John's cheeks coloured. 'I thought you could use them. You know, when you're on a case,' he added lamely. 'I'll just open this now, shall I?' He gestured hurriedly to the package he was still holding.

Sherlock nodded his assent, very nearly vibrating with excitement. He had never given a gift before, and it was turning out to be rather enjoyable.

John, who had considerably more experience with gift-giving, first removed the bow carefully then took the paper off neatly and folded it before looking at the object in front of him. When he did look, though, he was awestruck.

'Sherlock, it's absolutely incredible!'

It was a beautifully painted, framed portrait of the two of them, exquisitely detailed and accurate. John was seated in his armchair, reading a newspaper, and Sherlock was tuning his violin on the nearby sofa. The colours were so vibrant and lifelike and the brushstrokes so carefully disguised that it looked very nearly like a photograph.

'The picture of domestic bliss,' Sherlock drawled ironically.

John snorted. 'Remind me to hang this up somewhere no one else can see it. We don't need people getting any ideas about us. Again.'

He turned back to the portrait, rough fingers stroking the smooth glass. 'Where did you get this?'

'I painted it,' Sherlock said, without a trace of his usual arrogance. 'I'm a man of many skills, John. Surely you must know that by now.'

'Mm,' John agreed, nodding. 'I had noticed.' He was too impressed to be amused at how quickly the haughtiness had returned. 'Hang on,' he said, noticing something. 'You couldn't have painted all this from memory. It's too detailed!'

'I'm hurt, John! Even with _my_ memory?' he asked, pretending to be upset. 'But I will confess, I _was_ working from a photograph.'

'Where did you get a photograph of the two of us? I'm sure Mrs Hudson never took one.'

'Oh, John,' Sherlock scolded. 'We really must work on your observational skills.' He pointed to a tiny hole above the mirror.

'Wha- I don't…' John began, but he stopped short when, after a few moments of staring, he saw a barely detectable red light flash out of the darkness.

'Cameras, Sherlock?' he shouted. 'You installed security cameras?'

'Of course, John. How else could I be absolutely certain no one dangerous has been in the flat?'

'_I've_ been in the flat! That's invasion of privacy, Sherlock. You could have told me about them! As long as there aren't any cameras in my bedroom...'

'About that,' Sherlock held up a finger in explanation, but John cut him off.

'No. Absolutely not. There are _not_ any cameras in my room.'

'Don't be so sensitive, John. I don't _watch_ the footage. It's just a precaution. You should be thanking me for keeping you safe.' He shrugged slightly. 'I have a lot of enemies, you know.'

'And I'll soon be one of them if you don't take the bloody cameras out of my room!'

John stomped off up the stairs muttering about "psychotic pervert flatmates", but Sherlock noted with pleasure that he had taken the portrait with him to his room.

He sighed contentedly to himself. It really had been a proper "Christmas", even if the 25th wasn't for a few days. After all, what were the holidays without a few domestic quarrels?

And it wasn't as if John would stay mad for long. In fact, even as Sherlock mused, he could hear the sound of John's muttering die away; immediately, almost imperceptibly, it was replaced with the faint, faint sound of a hammer and nail.


End file.
